A few weeks ago I posted the first poem in my chapbook, "Living In My Last Resort."  As I plan to post all of the poems in it I decided I should backup and give you an insight into what generated my decision to write a series of poems about my realization that I am walking in the twilight hours of my life and present a realistic perspective of my life end view of aging.  The following is from the beginning of my chapbook.  I hope you will find this and my series of poems insightful, comforting and give you a little giggle here and there. 

INTRODUCTION

         LIVING IN MY LAST RESORT

        Recently two of my doctors independently advised me, “Don, you are at the point where I will only do surgery on you as a last resort.”

        As I have pondered the implications of what they told me, it has become clear to me that I am “living in my last resort.”  Reflecting upon this, I decided to write a series of poems depicting the nature of my resort, what kind of facilities are in the complex and how each one affects my daily life and that of my wife, Sharon.
     
   I hope you will meander with me through my last resort and experience some of the feelings engendered in the various structures, through interaction with staff, change in attire, and by services provided.

        Randomly interspersed with the poems will be photos of some of the buildings that make up my last resort.  I am grateful to the multitude of staff at my last resort who have provided for my needs with tender loving care.

        Keep in mind, that most of us, in varying degrees, will experience life in our “last resort.”

       Over the last several years, Psalm 90:9b-10 has inspired me along my hope filled journey.  It reads as follows:

“We have finished our years like a sigh.  As for the days of our life, they contain seventy years, or if due to strength, eighty years, yet their pride is but labor and sorrow; for soon it is gone and we fly away.” (NASV)

 

Don E. Cunningham, ©11-10-2010   

LIVING IN MY LAST RESORT

        I'm at the point in my life where I have difficulty figuring out simple things like, why I wear my suspenders; to keep my pants up or to make my shoulders stoop-over?  Either way they accomplish both.

        On my last visit to my dermatologist I told him I had some kind of rash on my head. He examined it and then used a highfalutin medical term, which I didn’t understand.  When I asked him what it meant he told me it was what you might call geriatric acne. The dawn burst like the sun rising from the East - I was at the adolescent stage in my second childhood!  The next day, to celebrate, I went to the barber and got a flattop haircut; a reminder of my hairstyle in my last year of high school.  I was back in the groove!

I wore it that way for a couple of months and decided to let it grow back in.  I had only one flattop during my teen years.  When I mentioned it to my wife, Sharon, she suggested that I might want to keep the flattop.  After all, it would be easier for me to take care of.  It is probably a good idea.  If I do though, maybe I’ll replace the little soft bristle scrub brush for an honest –to –goodness fancy designed hair brush.  However, at my age and living in my last resort, it’s hard to know if it would be worth the investment.

        After mistaking my hearing aid for a cashew nut and biting into it, I bought a new behind the ear set. It makes it less likely I’ll eat them.  They are so small I hope I don’t accidentally identify them as a crawling bug and stomp on them.  Now where was it I put my glasses?  Oh, here they are behind my computer monitor.  Probably, should put a neck string on them.

        Sometimes we arrive at a meeting and I realize I forgot to put my hearing aids in.  Sharon recently put a sign on the inside of our front door.  It is about the size of a school zone sign and has three little words, “Keys” “Meds” “Hearing Aids”.  As time progresses she’ll probable link additional words to it like: “Cane” “Walker” and “Wheel Chair.”  Will it ever end?

        To make matters worse, next to the door, are two other signs.  “Been There, Done That, Can’t Remember” and “Young at heart, older in other places.”  Apparently, those kinds of signs begin to appear when you are living in your last resort!

        When reference to the heart is made, I become somewhat concerned.  The scripture warns us against hardening of our hearts.  My Cardiologist did some tests and explained to me that some of the tissue on the right side of my heart has hardened.  It looks like I’m in real trouble with the Lord if He includes the physical as well as the spiritual meaning of the heart.  On the other hand He also says He will write his Word on our heart.  If that is the case mine will be a little easier to write on.

 

  
DON IN FRONT OF HIS BIRTHPLACE AND CHILDHOOD HOME - 2008.

589 Sixth Avenue, N. Troy, NY (Lansingburgh)

Where the journey began!

Don E. Cunningham Copyright 8-23-13

 

HONORING OUR FIREMEN AND POLICE ON INDEPENDENCE DAY

Dear Friends,

     Today, as we celebrate our hard won Independence day, I am thinking not only of our veterans and those currently serving overseas to protect our freedom, but of those who risk their lives in our neighborhoods every day to protect us and our way of life.  This past week we have seen that courage and devotion dramatically demonstrated with the death of 19 Granite Mountain Hot Shot firemen.  These young men gave their last "full measure of devotion" fighting a forest fire in nearby Yarnell.  We cannot comprehend what their families and firemen comrades are enduring as they grieve their untimely deaths.  We grieve with them.  

     In 2006 I wrote the following poem to honor our local firemen and police officers who were visiting our facility to familiarize us with their services.  I had served as a Volunteer In Protection with our local sheriff's department, assigned to the Victim Witness Program.  I have the greatest respect for these "Servants in Black and Navy Blue."   I hope you will join me in saluting and praying for them and their families as they daily serve and protect.  As I thought about our brave hot shot servants and their families, on July 5, 2005, I wrote and inserted three additional verses about them into my poem.

SERVANTS IN BLACK AND NAVY BLUE

Servants in black and navy blue,

We owe a special debt to you.

You protect our homes, lives and streets,

Needs of the fearful often meet.

 

Your sirens wail, you’re on the way,

Sworn to protect us every day.

What’re the problems you are there.

You show us that you really care.

 

Patrol our streets and keep them safe.

Take care of little forlorn waif.

Battling crime, a toll it takes,

Many of you it really breaks.
 

In combat gear you give us hope,

Will wipe out crime and stamp out dope.

When we’re stressed out, you remain calm.

With smiling face give peaceful balm.
 

In yellow garb you do arrive,

Keep our feeble frames alive.

You check our pulse and thump our chest,

You care for us the very best.
 

EMTs in ambulance rush,

To stop our bleeding all a-gush.

With your strong arms our stretchers bear,

We’re thankful friends that you are there.
 

 In ambulance we speed away,

You help us live another day

Rush to the emergency room,

Help us avoid impending doom.

 

So much heartache is seen by you,

Servants in black and navy blue.

Lifeless bodies on highways strewn,

Fire burned buildings sit in ruin.

 

Hot shots drop behind fire lines,

Fearlessly fight flames in the pines

Courageous men who give their all,

They're facing death - all standing tall.

Their families face the agony,

Beloved ones they may never see,

Hot Shots face fire's burning rage,

Entrapped within its blazing cage.

 

Amidst the flames their souls take flight,

They are precious in our Lord's sight.

Their bodies found right where they laid,

Our memories of them will not fade.

 

Lord we thank you for patriots brave,

For what they do and lives they gave.

We thank you Lord for all who serve,

Who from their duties never swerve.

 

Broken hearts barely stand the pain,

By our sides you bravely remain,

Hope you give - we cannot measure,

In our hearts it stays a treasure.

 

So many things you do for us,

Done quietly, without a fuss.

You do your job as it was planned,

Complete your duties on demand.

 

Your work is hard and pay is low,

And yet you serve with hearts aglow.

Ever striving to reach your goals.

Bear the stress of tormented souls

 

So we are here to sing your praise,

And gladly now our voices raise.

Servants in black and navy blue.

We are very grateful to you.

 

Hugs, In Christ’s and My Love,

 

Don E. Cunningham

©August 1, 2006 Updated 7-5-13

 

 

LIVING IN MY LAST RESORT - GOLD IS GONE

Dear Friends,

     It is hard to believe that it has been three and one half years since I have placed any of my poems on my blogsite.  Since my last posting we moved to a rental apartment and then back to Windsong.  Ill health followed us whereever we went.
     The other day a new fellow writer came to our writers' group.  After listening to some of my writing, she asked for my blog address so she could read some of my poems.  Believe it or not it has been so long that I had to look it up!  Her request spurred me on to begin posting again.
     I have decided to occasionally post some poems from my latest chapbook "Living In My Last Resort."  After a doctor at Mayo read my chart he told me, "Mr. Cunningham, if it weren't for the fine care you receive and the advancement in medical science you would have been dead years ago."  Between a wonderful caring wife and my excellent doctors I believe that to be true.
     When I thought about it I decided to write a series of poems, which I incorporated into the above titled chap book.  Here is the one I have chosen to share.

GOLD IS GONE

 

When gold is gone in Golden Years,

And life-end plans destroyed.

We must move on with altered goals,

Lest all of life be void.

 

With broken hearts we look around,

‘Til a new dwelling find.

The move is tough as we downgrade,

And leave old friends behind.

 

Misguided by those whom we trust,

Tossed money down the drain.

   While tears may flow and friends be gone,

Our funds cannot regain.

 

This last resort – a large complex,

Made up of many parts.

Spread out in many areas,

Burden upon our hearts.

 

The compound is interesting,

With many services.

Apartments, hospitals and Transport,

The place is hard to miss.

 

I spend much time within my den,

I’m quite a bit worn out.

Sitting at my old computer,

Don’t have much time to pout.

 

My traveling is done by car,

And sometimes ambulance.

Trips to the doctors’ offices,

Helps me my health enhance.

 

Now when I hear the sirens wail,

And see the red lights flash.

I know they are coming for me,

 They’ll take me in a dash.

 

Emergency rooms and hospitals,

Are part of my routine.

They poke and jab and run their tests,

A diagnosis glean.
 

Up to the plush resort I’m sent,

With special treatment plan,

Care providers all pamper me,

Do everything they can.

 

My last resort sets many moods,

From sorrow to great joy.

With loving wife and caring staff,

Grateful thanks I employ.

 

I ponder now my last resort,

My voice I gladly raise.

I feel my Savior’s tender care,

Give accolades of praise.

 

Don E. Cunningham  ©11-9-2010      263

 

WINDSONG VILLAS OUR ABIDING LAST RESORT



CHRISTMAS TIDINGS 2009

This year I found myself struggling for a couple of weeks with what kind of Christmas Poem Letter to write. Most years I have written poems centering upon what we have done over the past year. This year I didn’t feel comfortable with writing about aches, pains and medical challenges. Then one day last week I finally wrapped my mind around what to write. The following poem is the outcome of my thoughts:

Sharon and I pray you Happy Holidays and a very blessed and grace filled year.  We bring you tiding of

 great JOY!

MERRY CHRISTMAS,  WITH HUGS, IN CHRIST'S AND OUR LOVE

Don and Sharon Cunningham

A LIVING MIRACLE

Over the last couple of months I have had numerous tests, ultra-sound, echoes and cat scans to check blood circulation to legs, feet, stomach and head. I also had left carotid surgery. Following these tests I learned that following my carotid surgery scar tissue formed resulting in 45% blockage in the left carotid. The doctor told me that this rarely happens and only does so with diabetic patients. Due to my diabetes they will not do further surgery unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Now, the big finding!


My cardiologist took out his pen and drew a sketch of the arteries going to the stomach. He indicated that the smaller artery was 76% blocked. Then he showed us the miracle. The larger artery had done a natural bypass around the blocked artery and reconnected below the blocked part of the other artery. This meant adequate blood flow to the stomach and made surgery unnecessary. The doctor suggested I write a poem about the miracle of the body. The poem and a copy of the sketch follow:

A LIVING MIRACLE

They say I evolved up from the slime,

But my creation was sublime.

Known by God before I was born,

A person of beauty, not scorn.

Two were wed, they became just one,

I was conceived as their third son.

Burst forth in love out of the womb,

From the beginning meant to bloom.

Body operating most fine,

Just as planned by our Lord’s design.

As parts wear down they are refreshed,

Everything working – intermeshed.

The soul within my flesh abides,

Throughout my life it gently guides.

My brain is performing just fine,

All body tasks it doth define.

It sends signals to every part,

With extra circuit to the heart.

Coordinated functioning.

While every part does its own thing.

The heart pumps in smooth harmony,

Sending blood through each part of me.

When artery restricts blood flow,

Another around it will grow.

As circulating blood goes round,

It with nutrients doth abound,

Picks up the waste carries it out,

That is what it is all about.

The lungs breathe in and then breathe out,

Oxygen through the body route.

Carbon dioxide they exhale.

Day in, day out, they never fail.

Kidneys and liver filter too,

Keep fluids clean is what they do.

Bladder and rectum work real well,

The waste from body they expel.

The bones the body’s structure form,

The skeleton erect is norm.

They serve another grand purpose,

Create new blood to flow through us.

The flesh all wrapped in porous skin,

Retains the gooey substance in.

Keeps body cool, releases sweat,

Ninety eight point six always met.

My five senses come into play,

Help guide my life throughout the day.

To see, touch, taste, smell and to hear,

Enriches all that I hold dear.

Infinite parts I cannot see,

All do their work inside of me.

They fight disease and keep me well,

Most of the time make me feel swell.

For over eighty years it’s worked,

Never a single duty shirked.

And now I simply have to say,

I LIVE - a miracle each day!

When this body returns to clay,

It will arise another way.

Yes, raised immortal it shall be,

To live with God eternally.

Don E. Cunningham, P.O.P. ©9-27-09 549

Hugs, In Christ's and My Love

Don

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CLOUDS OF LIFE

There comes times in our lives when clouds begin to form around us. Sometimes they bring showers of blessing. At other times they are dark storm clouds that reach into the depths of our souls. We look for the silver lining and hope that good will come out of our deep distress. The following poem attempts to bring us from the dark clouds of despair into the calm of our Lord’s presence in our lives. May you find the peace of God in the midst of your storm.

CLOUDS OF LIFE

Clouds of our lives float overhead,
Writing upon the sky.
Daily new messages they bring,
Apparent to the eye.

Sometimes a lone cloud lingers near,
A beauty to behold.
Then others gather by its side,
To show a message bold.

The mass grows heavy with the rain,
And lightning starts to flash.
The thunder claps with loud applause,
As raindrops to earth crash.

The storms of life encompass us,
Fear in hearts doth abound.
Cloud bursts are blasting at our souls,
Flood waters surge around.

No matter what the clouds may bring,
Fierce storms or gentle rain.
My soul in peace shall ere abide,
For Christ within doth reign.

When the clouds of life beset you,
In the darkness of the night.
May the Holy Spirit comfort,
And keep you from all fright.

Don E. Cunningham
Patriot Octogenarian Poet
©8/6/2009